


Anastomosis - Volume 2

by thecountessolivia



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Domestic, Fluff, M/M, PWP, Post-Episode: s03e13 The Wrath of the Lamb, Post-Fall
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-07
Updated: 2019-10-02
Packaged: 2019-10-24 04:57:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,492
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17698073
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thecountessolivia/pseuds/thecountessolivia
Summary: Second edition of loose, post-fall, mostly PWP snapshots. Sequel toAnastomosis - Volume 1Chapter 1 - The MessChapter 2 - The HandsChapter 3 - The AnswerChapter 4 - Porto Panto(Note: includes the deleted butt flap fic "Porto Panto" - it belongs here)





	1. The Mess

Will was ruffling a towel through his hair when his eye caught on the T-shirt and shorts he had dumped on the bathroom floor. Still sweat-soaked from his run, they lay in a heap next to his sneakers, which he hadn't bothered to take off on his way up to shower.

A thought came to Will and lingered, as pleasant as it was petty. Still naked and dripping, he dropped the towel, padded past the mess he'd made and headed downstairs.

His feet left wet imprints on the polished wood steps that took him down to the kitchen and lounge. Morning sun had sprawled itself through the house, spilling gold over the patterned tiled floors and bending rays in the silver cloche set out on the kitchen island: Will’s breakfast.

Will lifted the cloche and muttered his approval: English muffins stacked with poached eggs and salmon, encircled with droplets of dill sauce and meticulously scattered with parsley and chives, no doubt sourced from the manicured herb garden that grew around their porch. Will smelled coffee, too: freshly dripped from a contraption not unlike the one he remembered from Hannibal's house in Baltimore.

He picked up half a muffin and pottered lazily across the lounge. Crumbs and fine flakes of herbs fluttered down in his wake.

He opened the French doors and leaned against the frame while he took a bite. The ocean breeze barged in past him and sent a pleasant ripple over his bare skin while the sun-warmed tiles dried his feet. It felt good. His eggs and salmon were rich and delicious: the yolk spilled from his mouth and dribbled in a sunny splatter to the floor.

Will found that he was in an absurdly good mood. Only one thing could possibly improve it. He took one more bite, left the remnants of the muffin on a side table and headed back to the kitchen to help himself to coffee.

He was in the process of spilling sugar on its way to his mug when he heard the softest of footsteps. He didn't have time to turn.

"I thought literal breadcrumb trails were confined to the realm of fairy tales."

Hannibal's voice washed over the nape of Will's neck, prickling the fine hairs there. The heat of his body bracketed Will's back, more intense than the morning sun.

Will shivered and nearly dropped his mug. A dark fairy tale was exactly what his life here sometimes felt like.

"No good morning?" he asked.

"Weren't you trying to ensure that mine wasn't?"

Will reigned in a grin with a bite on his lip. "I guess you mean the mess. Sorry about that," he said with a breezy lack of sincerity that pleased him.

"You're not in the slightest." Hannibal moved in closer, not just warmth and voice now, but touch as well. The smooth fabric of his shirt and trousers pressed against Will's still-damp skin. "What did you think would happen when I found it?"

"I thought I'd get to watch you have to clean it up," Will said quickly. Hannibal's hands slid over his. Will's fingers twitched under the warm palms that caressed them. "Or that you'd make me do it."

He _had_ pictured it: Hannibal on his knees, scraping dried egg yolk from his imported tiles while Will watched. Or Will, still naked under Hannibal's all-consuming gaze, mopping up the soggy mess he'd left on the steps.

"Which idea did you prefer?"

"Both had some appeal," Will confessed.

Hannibal kissed the back of his neck and spun him about to face him. He pressed against Will, hips and stomachs flush, so close, so sweetly invasive. "Oh, Will. This is one of those rare occasions when your extraordinary imagination has let you down. Did it never occur to you that I might want to join in on the fun?"

With that, Will was gripped by the hips and hoisted up, far too easily, onto the kitchen counter. He huffed his surprise. Even now, sudden displays of Hannibal's strength shocked him. Will thought about the source of the muscles that had lifted him up with such nonchalance, the weight of dead flesh that had helped them grow under Hannibal's skin. He didn't struggle against the spike of arousal that followed the thought.

He strained forward for a kiss and was denied.

Hannibal stepped back, cut through with a sunbeam. Gaze fixed on Will, he began to unbutton his shirt: closely tailored, pale blue cotton to go with his tan and the sun-gilded silver streak he had permitted to flourish since the summer months. His eyes flooded with light, citrine gems beneath stray wisps of hair. He looked almost achingly appealing.

Will's cock stirred between his legs. “You don't want to make a mess," he said, shifting his bare ass against the cold of sugar-gritted marble. “You want to turn me into one.”

"I struggle to envision a more pleasing mess on my counters," Hannibal replied, folding his shirt neatly over the back of a chair. He reached into his pocket and set down a bottle of lube before he resumed stripping.

Will's eyes shuttled between the bottle and Hannibal's newly naked form. "Very boy scout of you," he muttered. His fingers and toes curled. His skin, still prickling from the droplets that dripped from his hair, itched for the warmth of Hannibal's touch. His thighs spread wider of their own accord.

Hannibal gave him the smallest smile, enough to flash the tips of his canines. "I caught a glimpse of your naked body moving through the house. How could I not come prepared?" He slid his hands over Will's waist again and urged him to the left, the better to settle Will’s ass into the coarseness of spilled sugar. "Now. Lean back for me. Make yourself comfortable."

Will swallowed hard. "How comfortable?"

"Feet up on the counter, legs spread. Please."

Will let out a shuddering sigh. He was already on display before, but now, leant back on his elbows, legs pulled up and splayed, he felt vulnerable to Hannibal in a way that still made him faintly ill. He glanced over Hannibal's shoulder, at the magnetised strip to which clung the Japanese steel of Hannibal's knives. It glinted in the mellow morning light.

"What did you have in mind?" he asked.

"As I said: only to help you further what you've already started," Hannibal said, pulling up a chair to settle between Will's legs, as he might with a patient ready to be examined. Or a carcass about to be quartered. He coiled his hands over Will's thighs and stroked gently. The touch helped settle the itch under Will's skin but he still wanted more, wanted Hannibal's easy, smirking mouth wrapped around his aching cock. He wondered if Hannibal's hands smelled of the herbs he'd picked for their breakfast.

"You have sugar on you, Will," Hannibal murmured.

Will inhaled slowly. His breath had grown unsettled. "Yeah. I can feel it."

"How does it feel?"

"Rough," Will admitted. "Feels like your stubble when you're— when you're down there."

"Down here— like this?"

The assault landed first on Will's inner thigh: Hannibal's tongue pressing in whole and flat, dragging wet ribbons over sensitive skin. Then the other thigh, slathered and suckled until sugar crystals, helpless against the heat of Hannibal's mouth, dissolved into sticky trails. Then that tongue again, chasing syrupy rivulets down between Will's cheeks and lodging against Will's hole.

It was too much, too fast. For a moment, Will forgot himself. He strained his throat for some plea or command, but managed only a drawn-out whine. His elbows gave under him. His head almost hit marble. He threw his arms out to grip the edge of the counter, used the leverage to shove himself into the unchecked greed of Hannibal's mouth. It made him dizzy, this lack of refinement and table manners, just the hard, hot muscle of Hannibal's tongue working his body open, spit and obscene sounds and the scrape of Hannibal's stubble against tender skin.

He dug his heels into Hannibal's shoulders and groped for his cock.

"Christ, Hannibal."

Hannibal caught him by the wrist. "Leave that for the moment."

Will strained his neck up, panting. The sight of Hannibal's face between his legs, drenched in syrup and spit, heavy-lidded and bright-eyed and utterly debauched, only made him hotter.

"Not gonna let me get off?" he asked through gritted teeth.

Hannibal bit lightly at the inside of his thigh. "Not this easily."

His hands slid smoothly up the length of Will's body. Index fingers and thumbs tugged at the sparse hair around Will's nipples, then snapped closed over each and twisted hard.

Will jerked and let out a groan. He shut his eyes and tried to breathe through the onslaught of sensation. The relentless pinch and pull of Hannibal's fingers over those tiny slivers of flesh ran two nerve streams of pure arousal down to his cock, stiff and leaking and still utterly neglected against his belly.

"A recent discovery, this particular sensitivity of yours," Hannibal said softly, nuzzling between Will's thighs. "I wonder how far I could take you, just like this. Or would you need my tongue back inside you?"

Will struggled for coherence. The cold marble of the kitchen counter dug into his shoulders, made his bones ache and still he tried to squirm away or arch up for more — he didn't know which.

"Don't," he hissed. "Don't fucking leave me like this. You have to fuck me. You have to."

Hannibal gave Will's nipples one more tug, then seemed to veer towards pity. He picked up the lube and made a display of drenching his fingers. Will strained up to his elbows to see. He spread his legs wider, toes curling, but Hannibal didn't reach for him. Instead, Will watched as he slicked his hard cock, wiped his hands clean on a kitchen towel, then leaned in and extended his arms out to Will, a come-hither gesture.

Will blinked. "What?"

"Come here. Arms around my neck please."

Will hauled himself up, back protesting. He shuffled down, unsure, and wound his arms about Hannibal's neck.

In a single swoop, the counter disappeared from under him.

"Oh my God. Fuck, how—"

That same shocking strength again. Will's legs swayed from Hannibal's arms and his feet kicked at empty air, finding grip at last against Hannibal's hipbones. He was floating, transported. Hannibal was moving him in slow measured steps. They didn't stop until Will's back was up against a sun-warmed wall.

All Will could do was hang on. The wall's impact brought them closer and pressed his cock against the warm skin and hair of Hannibal's stomach.

A moment of stillness descended. They gazed at each other, quickened breaths matched and mouths open.

Will swallowed hard. "How—"

He felt movement from below. Hannibal's strong hands, splayed over his ass cheeks, were nudging him into position. Will shuttered his eyes and shifted as much as he could, adjusted and wiggled against slickness until he felt the sweet familiar pressure of being breached.

The strain and burn of it made him breathless, but there was no reprieve — Hannibal's hips drove up once, sharp and without mercy. Will felt like nothing more than a bundle of helpless flesh being skewered onto Hannibal's fat cock.

But the angle couldn't have been more perfect. The short thrusts came faster and faster, and each one landed just right against Will's prostate. Though his spine ached against the hard plaster of the wall, Will felt as if his whole body had become a conduit for unadulterated pleasure. He threw his head back, slurred words he barely heard, little pleading gasps that grew louder when Hannibal's teeth bared themselves against his neck and scraped over tendons and veins.

"What will happen after I've come inside you, with you like this?" Hannibal said, hot breath against his skin. "What does that mind of yours show you?"

Will knew what would happen: Hannibal would keep him like this, insistently pressed between the wall and Hannibal's spent body, until every last drop of Hannibal's come trickled out of him. Will would feel it. He would hear it spill out of him onto the polished tile below, drop by lazy drop.

Will's head lolled forward. He shoved his face against Hannibal's shoulder to smother the undercurrent of shame that appeared under the sharp surges of pleasure. He couldn't wait anymore. He hung on with all his strength, let one arm slide between them, and reached for his cock. He shut his eyes, felt the jerky suspension of his body in Hannibal's arms and stroked himself fast with near desperation, almost dizzy with the relief of it. He'd been so achingly close, but the hot gush of Hannibal's orgasm inside him was impetus enough. He spilled in spasming spurts against his skin, against Hannibal's skin, while the world spun away to white.

He clung on afterwards, face still buried against the darkness of Hannibal's body. By degrees, he looked up, almost timid. He never wanted to touch the ground again.

"I would like to kiss you now," Hannibal told him softly.

Something in his tone made Will's heart ache. He craned forward and brought their foreheads together.

"Nothing stopped you before."

Hannibal kissed him softly then, one perfectly tender press of his lips. And another, more lingering and almost reverent.

"I'm still inside you."

Will laughed, bordering on giddy. "Yeah. I know. For now."

"And after?"

"What we both imagined. An ungodly mess."

"And who will clean it all up?"

It was Will's turn to kiss him. He pressed in just as soft, just as tender.

"You know how this works. We both will. Together."


	2. Chapter 2

After dinner, routine has them settled side by side on the porch to watch the day fade.

Hannibal reads, while Will reads the sky. He scans for darker patches that could swell into storms, but finds none to threaten the gold-burnished dusk. But for the swooping of silhouetted sea birds and the buzzing of insects, the evening is perfectly still. The stillness slips inside Will and looks for a place to settle.

"Do you ever question this?" he asks.

Hannibal doesn't stir or look up from his book. "This?"

"This peace."

"An inevitable state born of the trouble we took to arrive here. It surprises me at times. But for the most part, I stride gladly beside it."

"You don't find the parade ... maddeningly polite?"

"With you for company, Will? When you are often maddening and sometimes not polite?"

Will casts a sidelong glare to his left and has it met with warmth and mirth. Hannibal's hand blankets his own, a solid weight that both placates Will's look and elicits further confession.

"The trouble we took visits me in my dreams," Will confesses. "Like shadows on the surface of a stream."

"Nightmares?"

"No. Not for a long time."

"Good. I didn't think so. You look peaceful when you sleep."

Will's mouth twitches at the thought of Hannibal watching him dream. He takes a swig of his bourbon and tracks a flock of terns across the watercolor sky. "I see our past in those shadows. I observe it like— entertainment. Like theater."

Hannibal's hand moves enough to wake the nerves beneath Will's skin. "And this troubles you?"

"The past should haunt me. It doesn't. At worst, it simply is. At best it—" Will licks sweetness and oak from his lips, hesitates— "It dazzles."

He can almost sense the pleased cat expression settle over Hannibal's face.

"How do you see our past?" he asks.

"As a spectacle of raw beauty," Hannibal says. "Tell me: is the nostalgic drama of your dreams more engaging than the present reality?"

Will shifts in his seat. He wonders if he's betrayed more than he'd intended to already. He's been so easily coaxed of late. "Those weren't good times, Hannibal. I'm not nostalgic for your unorthodox courtship. You know this."

"Yes. Yet those times are what shaped us. They have shaped this moment. You recognise that the quiet life we've carved out for ourselves here is disharmonious with the past, but necessary in preventing our capture. And you say you don't pine for what has been. Which begs the question: are you bored, Will?"

Will's hand jerks under that heavy canopy of Hannibal's touch. "Are _you_ bored?" he snaps.

Hannibal's hand shifts to wrap loosely about Will's wrist. "As I said: never with you. But I won't be offended if you admit that you have found yourself under-stimulated."

Will shakes his head quickly. "I’m not. You make sure of that. Hell, sometimes you go ... above and beyond."

Hannibal spreads a slow smile. "You must mean our adventure with Luca. That was a pleasant interlude."

Will shifts again, trying not to dwell on the boy they shared their bed with a few weeks prior. He feels his pulse quicken in the light grip of Hannibal's fingers. The stillness inside him bumps against a truth now thrashing to be let out: that the possibility of the boy being both bedded and butchered had been half the thrill. They'd let him go, well fucked and glowing and contented. They'd not seen him since.  
  
"What stands out?" Hannibal asks.

"In my dreams?"

"Mm."

Will takes a lungful of ocean air chilled by the approaching night. He holds the breath. He feels the expectation in Hannibal's silence.

"Your hands," he says at last, then shuts his eyes.

Years have passed and Will still sees in the shadowed recesses of his dreaming mind the twisting grip around Mason's neck, the grip that helped bring down the Dragon. He feels palms slide against his cheek, smells the latex gloves. He sees all the things he knew about but never glimpsed: organs daintily uprooted, necks neatly snapped, flesh flayed with finesse — all by the same two hands that now prepare Will's meals and pleasure Will's body. In his dreams, he can't tell the hands apart from his own.

When he speaks again, Will's throat feels dry. "I dream about them. I see them ... act."

The grip on his arm tightens. He feels Hannibal slide closer, feels the bones of his wrist wrapped in the cradle of Hannibal's bones.

"Your dreams remind you what I am capable of," Hannibal murmurs, very close. "What do you miss about me, Will?"

Will represses a shiver. "I'm not asking for bodies. I'm not. But I miss the— spectacle of you."

"If only we'd kept a photo album of my best efforts for you to reminisce over."

Will laughs. He feels skittish, on edge. The cold air and the hand travelling up his arm anchor him to the world. He leans into the touch. He still hasn't opened his eyes.

"Wouldn't be the same. God. I spent years trying to stop you."

"You've succeeded. My less desirable pursuits are, for the moment, shelved and locked away." A warm hand settles over Will's neck. "But if it's theatre you want, then perhaps we can find other ways to accommodate your heart's desire."

Will feels his throat work beneath the spread of Hannibal's hand. "What— will you do?"

"Nothing that will fully satisfy you. But we must make do, and it so happens I have at my disposal the most perfect collaborator and subject I could hope of. Have you ever seen a tableau vivant, Will?"

Will's eyes snap open. Beyond the garden, past the cliffs and the ocean, the sky's gold has turned to crimson. The hand on his throat is like fire.

"You want to display me," he whispers.

"Yes."

"No cutting. No scars."

"Nothing beyond the word of your consent. Push the both of us only as far as you wish. And in the meantime you can watch me at work. Just like in your dreams."

Will lets out a shaking breath. He brings his hand to cover Hannibal's and feels the fast, steady beat of his pulse under Hannibal's fingers. He nods slowly.

The stillness inside him finds its place and settles at last.


	3. The Answer

In those first fraught weeks, when the promise of safety was still written on water, they often took turns: one would keep watch while the other slept.

Perhaps it's the echoes of those nights that now keep Will awake even through the thickest post-coital slump, long after Hannibal drifts off.

Hannibal doesn't ask why. He kisses Will good night and tolerates the reading light Will burns well into the night.

But Hannibal will ask. It's only a matter of time. Will can hear the start of that conversation, can feel the familiar sensation of his thoughts being surgically pried open. He wont be able to lie, or to blame the heat or the nightmares he hasn't had for months. So he'd better have an answer ready.

One evening, while he keeps his watch, he dares examine the contents of his head and pulls out the answer, as simple and honest as it is unutterable: Will likes watching Hannibal sleep.

Though maybe that's just the start of it.

The summer nights have been warm, the A/C as fickle as ever. The ceiling fan above them twirls to the insect concerto coming in through the netted windows. The sheets are pushed down, bunched at their waists. Will's book holds his attention for no more than ten minutes before his eyes veer to the right.

Hannibal sleeps, invariably, with a kind of arrogance: heavily, unperturbed, with arms splayed to his sides or overhead. The sleep of innocents. His chest rises and falls with ease, sometimes heaving up a soft snore. His naked skin looks so vulnerable.

"I could kill you," Will mouths one night.

A pillow over the face, a knife to the throat. Warm blood spouting onto cream cotton sheets. It's not the wanting — it's the knowledge that he's been given unfettered access and trust. The freedom of it gives Will a low thrill in the pit of his belly. The monster isn't tamed, but he's Will's to keep.

Sleep mellows Hannibal's features. The absence of his conscious mind makes milder the hard bluffs and valleys of his bones. On the nights they fuck, his hair plasters afterwards to his brow. When Will feels brave, he brushes back a few of those stray greying strands.

At other times, he splays his hand just above Hannibal's breastbone, waiting for breath to lift it and tickle his palm with the bristle of chest hair. Sometimes he brings a fingertip an inch from Hannibal's face and traces its outlines, or draws a path in the air, like a blade, over the wings of Hannibal's collarbone. He feels for the warmth of the delicate skin of his throat.

For the three years Hannibal was in prison, Will lived in a drought. He had his memories and dreams, all of them frantic and vivid. But beyond those? Only newspaper pictures from the trials, the occasional clips of Hannibal speaking. Will couldn't bare to watch those anyway.

He had no mementos of his own: nothing to remind him of the way Hannibal used to look at him, or the few moments Will had spend daring to steal glances. He had felt back then like a thief robbing the delicate contents of his own heart.

He clung to one memory in particular: an evening of confessions and near-promises in Hannibal’s office, a golden fire, fed with evidence, burnishing every curve and crease of that extraordinary face.

Will could lose it all again.

One night, he watches the low light fall over the bow curves of Hannibal's soft mouth as dreams make it purse and shift. Shadows smooth over Hannibal's cheekbones and dive into the star bursts of age lines around his eyes. His lids are wide and petal-smooth.

The final part of the answer arrives and skewers Will like a soft knife — the most unutterable thing of all. He takes his phone from the nightstand, checks and checks again that all its sounds and alerts are muted, and then he takes a picture.

\---

Over the grind of his ratchet, Will hears the approach of familiar footsteps.

Hannibal's voice: "Will you be much longer?"

"Just doing the filter now. So no."

Will wiggles under the car, sliding out just far enough to look up. Hannibal hovers expectantly nearby, dressed in his going-to-town clothes, panama hat in hand.

"Why?" Will asks.

"I have a doctor's appointment this afternoon, on the mainland. I will need to set off within the hour."

That gets Will from under the ramp and to his feet. He pulls off his gloves and frowns.

"What doctor's appointment? You're not sick."

Hannibal is silent a beat too long. "'I'm seeing a specialist, a visiting consultant at a local clinic."

"What— what clinic. Look, I'd say it's none of my business, but we both know you're going to have to tell me sooner or later."

Hannibal flicks an invisible dust speck from his sleeve. His jaw seems to tighten minutely. Will waits. Hannibal reaches into his pocket and pulls a business card from his wallet.

It takes Will a good minute of staring at tidy Serif type on the expensive paper thrust before his eyes before he can muster a reply.

"No," he says and shakes his head firmly. "We've talked about this. And it was a no."

"We talked about it while we were still recovering. Minds and circumstances change. And I am not expecting you to consider it for yourself. In fact, I would prefer it if you didn't."

Will scowls at the card: 

> _Umberto J. Rey_  
>  _Cirujano plástico_

He pushes the extended card and hand away. He walks out of the garage, into the blinding sunshine drowning the driveway. He stares out over the rolling fields and farmlands in the distance.

"You can't," he says quietly. He can feel the strain in his voice.

Hannibal's footsteps follow him. "You must agree that my face is distinct."

Will barks a laugh and shakes his head again. Distinct isn't the word that comes to mind. By now, he's thinking of ways to put an end to this. Maybe an unannounced visit to Dr Rey’s office, a sharp dissuasion...

Hannibal's hand lands gently on Will's shoulder. "Will. How long before someone—"

"Stop," Will says quickly.

Hannibal gives them both a moment.

"Have you not told me that you'd do whatever it takes to preserve the equilibrium we've built for ourselves here?" he says at last. "A chance recognition is the greatest risk we face. This is an added layer of safety for us both, nothing more."

Will steals a glance at Hannibal's profile: the soft pensive swell of his mouth, the shadowed jut of his cheekbones. He sees a surgeon's scalpel slicing apart all that improbable geometry. Taking it away from Will forever.

"Besides," Hannibal adds, "I'd long considered it regardless, even in my previous life."

Will stares at him in earnest then.

"What? Why?"

Hannibal gives him a faint smile. "Vanity, I suppose. We all wish for attractiveness."

Will keeps up his stare for a moment longer, mouth agape, and then he can't hold on any more. He turns his face up to the clear blue sky, covers it with his hands and begins to laugh. He can't stop. His shoulders shake with it.

"You? You. Of all people, you thought you needed—" He's still laughing, drowning in incredulity. "For fuck's sake, Hannibal."

Hannibal frowns faintly at him. "This surprises you? You know full well how much I value beauty. That value encompasses my personal appearance as well."

Will turns to him. He lifts his palms to cradle Hannibal's face. He scans every one of its features, drinks them in greedily.

"Oh, I do. You don't just value it, you worship it. I just thought that with your ego being the size of Saturn and all, you would see the obvious." He lets his thumbs sweep over the sharp lines of Hannibal's cheekbones. "What do you see when you look in the mirror?"  
  
Hannibal can't quite hold Will's gaze. His eyes fall closed in an easy escape, though he leans into the touch.

"Everything too big," he murmurs. "Aggressive and cold."

Will grabs him by the shoulders and walks him back against the garage door frame. He hems him in and kisses that full soft mouth, deep and lingering, no end in sight. He tries to pour everything into the kiss, his whole passionate counterargument.

Hannibal melts against him, arms swept about Will's waist. The sun warms their sides. The summer insects swirl and buzz in the heat. Will feels dizzy with the thrill of new revelation, of another glance behind Hannibal's armour. He puts his mouth to Hannibal's brow, eyelids, earlobes. He traces down the line of Hannibal's jaw.

He gets just enough space between them to fish his phone out of his pocket. He sweeps through the roll of pictures and finds the one he hoped he'd never have cause to show: Hannibal asleep and half naked, in quarter profile, illuminated by the low light of Will's reading light.

Will holds the picture up to Hannibal's eyes.

Hannibal is silent for a long time. He swallows hard. "I could postulate half a dozen reasons for you showing me this or for having taken it in the first place," he says quietly. "But I'm not sure how ready you are to confirm any of them."

"There's only one reason that applies to the present situation," Will says. "It should be reason enough to convince you not to get the fucking surgery."

Hannibal watches him carefully. The sun has replaced the flames of that long ago evening in Hannibal's office and paints his face in gold. Will takes him in and feels the giddy joy of not needing to hide. He has nothing left to steal from his heart.

They close each other in an embrace and linger, loosely entwined and caught in the moment, while Will thinks his true answer and reason at last, freely and without shame: _you're beautiful, you're beautiful, you're beautiful_.

 


	4. Porto Panto

Halfway through dessert it dawned on Will that the exquisite dishes being placed before him had something in common.

He'd pried open the mussels that arrived as part of the first course. During the second, he found himself lifting away the latticework pastry that capped a small casserole dish of stewed venison. And now his crème brûlée turned up not encrusted in caramel, but with a separate circular covering of burnt sugar lace teasingly slid aside to reveal the creamy contents underneath.

"Any reason I've been opening up all my food tonight?" Will asked on his last mouthful. "I feel like this is building up to something. Please don't tell me you're about to throw open the doors to some murder cellar you haven't told me about.” Will licked the last of the cream from his spoon. “You know how I feel about surprises.”

From across the table, Hannibal gave him a look as pleased as it was inscrutable. “I must congratulate you on correctly uncovering the common thread woven into our meal."

Will frowned at the curious phrasing of that non-reply whilst Hannibal rose and moved smoothly to collect their dishes.

Something about the self-conscious way with which he carried himself around the table made Will turn to watch him advance towards the kitchen.

And that’s when he saw it.

There had been nothing unusual about Hannibal's outfit that night. He had changed for dinner, as was sometimes his habit, into his nostalgic Baltimore-era regalia: a three piece suit, deep blue incised with faint red lines. All as expected, except— except.

"Stop," Will said.

Hannibal did. Will was on his feet and moving for him, lifting up the back folds of his suit jacket to see— no, his eyes hadn't deceived him. And now he couldn't tear them away for sheer incredulity.

Hannibal peered over his shoulder, lips smudged with a smirk. "You noticed. I wondered when you would."

Will’s jaw moved to hinge his mouth open but no words came out. None could adequately capture his reaction to the constellation of buttons curving in a downward crescent over the swell of Hannibal's ass.

There were about a dozen of them, evenly spaced and well camouflaged against the cloth. Their purpose appeared singular: to hold in place the ass of Hannibal’s pants, which had been generously sliced open.

"Fuck. I don't even know where to—" Words were finally juddering out of Will’s throat. He felt unaccountably warm. He fisted the vent folds of Hannibal's jacket with one hand. The other hovered for a moment over the arrangement of buttons, then landed squarely on the swathe of fabric between them. "Where did you get these?"

Hannibal leaned on the kitchen counter. At Will’s touch, he widened his stance and arched back minutely, still watching Will in half profile with a Mona Lisa smile. "The trousers? I had them altered. A relatively simple procedure, according to Anton."

"Your tailor did this." Will dropped his forehead against Hannibal's shoulder and breathed a laugh. "Of course he did."

Will knew too well how these things went: A few choice words, softly spoken, and the old man would have been talked into doing his ridiculous task without complaint or indignation. His fingers skimmed over the sturdy seam that tracked along the half-moon of plaid cloth while his brain was heating up from the crowd of obscene thoughts, each one vying for the attention of his cock.

He could have asked what the alteration was for, but it was obvious. Hannibal’s stance and the sidelong look he was coating Will with told him everything he needed to know.

"Is this— for me?"

"Do you need to ask?"

"No. Tell me anyway."

Hannibal turned smoothly and pressed the length of his body against Will's, so close and warm. His hand reached back and covered Will's where it had lingered over the curve of Hannibal’s ass. He pressed a kiss to Will's lips, all dessert wine and caramel cream.

"Of course I had it done for you, Will. Consider it a gift of convenience. A shortcut, if you will, to whatever pleasure you crave at my expense."

Will was drowning in craving. He pushed himself closer and nipped at Hannibal's lower lip once, then again, harder. When his fingers slotted between the buttons, they found only smooth, hot skin. His hardon twitched against Hannibal’s thigh.

"You can't go out in these," he said tightly against Hannibal's mouth.

Hannibal pressed back into the touch, sliding Will’s fingers further into the fold between cloth and flesh.

"Oh, I disagree. Most jackets will hide the alteration well enough. If you'd like me out in public like this, you need only to ask."

The offer went straight to Will's cock. He could see it so clearly: the two of them in some elegant crowded place, a gallery reception, an intermission at the opera. Will’s hand snaking around discreetly, working the buttons open, maybe just a few of them, enough to let him in to knead and grope, to find and tease Hannibal's hot, tight hole with one fingertip. Waiting, just waiting to see a crack in Hannibal’s composure. How much could they both endure, how much could they get away with before resorting to a clandestine fuck in the nearest toilet?

Hannibal was right: this was a gift. A single secret touchpoint of possession. Only I know about this. Only I can do this to you.

"Take off the jacket. Turn around."

Hannibal did, jacket draped neatly over a kitchen stool and hands braced once more against the counter. Will thought he saw tension lift and tighten through the broad line of his shoulders.

He took a step back and reached out. One after the other, working from the bottom, he pushed the buttons through the eyelets. With the last one done, he held the fold of fabric in place for a moment — then let it fall. And took in the view.

It was the vulnerability of it that got him. All of Hannibal still armored in respectability — polished shoes, tailored shirt with tie, satin-backed waistcoat— but for the round swell of soft skin perilously exposed and presented to Will’s gaze.

Will felt winded with want: to touch and to strike, to lick, bite and fuck. He squeezed his cock through his pants to relieve the ache. It was all he could do to stop himself from unzipping and shoving into Hannibal's body.

He stepped in again instead, nuzzling close and skimming his palm over Hannibal's exposed cheeks, enough to soak up their warmth. He felt tension there too. He listened to the clipped sound of Hannibal’s breath. Something squeezed at his heart.

"Anything?" he murmured against Hannibal's ear. "Are you sure?"

A small sigh from Hannibal. Another arch of his back in search of Will's touch. “Anything. As I said: take your pleasure.”

Will frowned a bit. He squeezed a handful of flesh gently and kissed the back of Hannibal’s neck. “What about you? What do you want?"

“I want you to be creative. And to take what you want."

"But—"

"Will. Would you like me to change my mind?”

Will didn’t. Whatever ambivalence he felt got lost in the need to seize the rarity of this ocassion, this sudden and unfettered access and the permissiveness it invited. He could always change course later. But for now, he had a plan.

“Stay here. Don’t move.”

He made the trip to the fridge quickly and filled a tumbler glass with what he needed. On his way back, he snagged a bottle of oil — that would come later. For now he wanted Hannibal to squirm.

Hannibal stayed where he was, watching Will’s every step with bright, wide eyes. Will pressed against his back again and ran both hands over and down the tense muscles in his shoulders and along his spine. He lay another kiss behind Hannibal's ear and pulled back when Hannibal craned for a kiss.

“It’s okay,” Will murmured. “I want you to enjoy this too.”

With that, he slid down to his knees. They would soon hurt from the tiles, but Will doubted he'd care. He set the glass and the bottle down on the floor. He scattered a few kisses over both bared cheeks and savoured the feel of newly air-chilled skin. He was about to chill it further. He reached into the glass and fished out the first ice cube.

Hannibal shifted slightly, a reflex against what was to come. "You promise reciprocity. I wonder how much pleasure you're capable of taking without giving in return."

Will wanted to ask him if he was nervous. If he'd bitten off more than he could chew. "Is that what this is about? Another experiment in empathy? Maybe you can decide when we're finished. For now—"

He felt more than he saw the clench and flinch of muscles as he traced the ice cube over Hannibal's left cheek. Then all the way up again, to the edge of that finely sewn seam, and again over the right, switching hands to keep his fingers from freezing. Rivulets of ice water coursed over Hannibal’s cold-prickled skin. Will lapped a few of them up and let others soak into fine Italian wool.

"Will—"

The gasp that carried Will's name was good, but the tight tremble in Hannibal's thighs was even better. Will ran the ice up and down the length of the crevice, unhurriedly, until a freezing waterfall was streaming between Hannibal’s cheeks. On the next pass he pushed the cube in further and smiled when Hannibal flinched. Will wondered how much of the water was trickling down the tender skin of Hannibal's inner thighs.

“Cold?”

“What an absurd question. You know it is.”

“Fine. Maybe I could warm you up?”

He didn't wait for an answer. He sat back on his heels, dropped the melting ice back in the glass and braced one hand against the slim line of Hannibal’s waist. He brought the other down hard against Hannibal's left cheek.

Another gasp and quick succession of breaths from above, but no words this time.

"You did say anything," Will said.

"I did."

The smack left a warm red print against Hannibal's skin. Will inhaled slowly to steady his galloping pulse and ignore the demands of his erection. On the exhale, he brought down another harsh slap. And another, harder still. Will's palm felt warm, still soaked from the ice. The wet sound of it echoed in the silence of the kitchen.

"More?" he asked.

A moment of silence, a few more shaky and half-stifled breaths. Will wanted so much to see Hannibal's expression — he almost could see it.

"Yes," came the reply.

"Too bad," Will said. "We're moving on.”

He gripped at Hannibal’s cheeks and pried them apart. After all, wasn't that what he'd been practicing for at dinner?

His fingers dug in. Then his nails. It had to hurt, but Will kept pulling, raking, scratching until there was no more yield and he had Hannibal spread wide open.

He paused there. He knew the pause meant he was staring right at the tight little entrance into Hannibal’s body, revealed by Will’s tight grip.

The exposure that had loaded Hannibal’s body with tension must have felt overwhelming now. The moment stretched. Will kept his fingers pressed in hard. He waited and wondered how keenly Hannibal felt his scrutinising gaze over that tight little hole, still untouched, still unfucked, ready to be tormented and spoiled.

“Will. Please.”

Strain and plea in Hannibal’s voice. Will jerked his handfuls further apart. “Is this uncomfortable?”

“Physically?”

“You know that’s not what I mean.”

The gulp that passed Hannibal’s throat was audible in the silence between them. “I only wish I could see your face.”

Will grinned. “So that you could guess at my intent?” He leaned in close and passed a single teasing lick across Hannibal’s hole. "You do look fucking good like this, you know. Like a feast. Open and ready for me."

Once he'd started, all he wanted to do was keep going, to lose himself in all that soft heat. His tongue brought a rhythmic cascade of long languid swipes over that tight ring of pink muscle, each growing more hot and sodden than the last, all while Will's nails kept raking hard along the cheeks. Soft and hard, sweetness and pain — all that Hannibal ever was to him.

The moans from Hannibal’s throat were almost desperate.

Will forced himself to stop. “I wasn't planning on this by the way,” he said. “Not yet anyway.”

His hands fell away. He drifted to the right and opened his mouth over Hannibal's ass. He locked it tight over the softest swell of flesh, all warm and wet from his earlier strikes, still reddened and hot from his nails. He started to suck.

The sudden eruption obscene noise climbed up to the kitchen ceiling and echoed there: Hannibal's pained groans, Will’s own groans, the wet pull and suckle of Will's tongue and lips over his mouthful, the scrape of his teeth and the skidding of Hannibal's dress shoes against the tile floor. Will felt his cock leaking inside his pants. He didn't dare to touch himself, knew if he did then all of this would be over too soon.

And he still had a few more ideas.

He pulled back, panting, and wiped at the spit streaming down his chin. He wanted to admire the suck and nail marks he'd left behind, but he had to work quickly now. He groped down blindly for the glass and found the ice cube that had melted into a rounded sliver, just smaller than his thumb.

“I did say you'd enjoy this. But tell me if I should stop."

"You know that's unlikely."

"I know."

Will shuffled closer on his aching knees and, ice gripped between his teeth, pressed himself between Hannibal's cheeks. He waited for a moment, but there was no complaint. So he took his aim and, with finesse that surprised him, speared the whole icy sliver into Hannibal's hole.

There was a clipped cry from above, and a protesting thrust from Hannibal's hips, a jerky shuffle of feet.

Will pressed his thumb quickly over the rim. He pushed and held the ice in place. The frozen water melted against the pad of his finger. It must have felt like a cold fever inside Hannibal's body.

"I won't be able to get it out now," Will said. "You'll just have to take it until it melts. Can you take it?"

No restraint now, no attempts to hold back. Hannibal slumped over the counter. Loud, heaving breaths moved his back. He jerked his head. "Yes," he said. "I can take it, Will. Whatever you offer."

Will felt as if the whole of Hannibal's being were suspended there, right on the tip of his thumb. He massaged the muscles around the rim, warming them, leaning in to kiss the tender, abused flesh nearby.

"It won't take long," he murmured. "I'll try and distract you."

He slid a hand between Hannibal's thighs and groped. When he found the hard line of Hannibal's cock, he groaned.

"God. Fuck. You're soaked."

Hannibal's words came out unsteadily. "You are being very— attentive, Will."

Will traced the shape of Hannibal's cock through the cloth and rubbed against the wet patch to spread it further. He knew he had to be in much the same state, the sweet ache of neglecting himself bordering on unbearable. It couldn't last much longer.

He pulled his thumb away and sealed his mouth over Hannibal's hole. A steady tremor passed through Hannibal's body and the ice melt began to trickle out onto Will's tongue.

Will sucked and licked and swallowed, gave Hannibal long, soothing strokes of his tongue while he lost himself in the sound of soft pleas and groans. He felt the wire tension begin to slacken from Hannibal's thighs. He reached down, wrangled with his belt and zipper and, with a groan of relief, freed himself at last.

He felt around again for the outline of Hannibal's erection and pressed his palm firmly over the warm stain of precome.

"I want to touch you through these. Like this. I want you to tell me if this feels good."

He managed to drizzle oil into his free hand and to drench his fingers. He'd stain the fine wool of Hannibal's trousers — he didn't think it'd matter. He wanted in, wanted to feel himself wrapped and held by Hannibal's body. He pressed two fingers between Hannibal's cheeks and slid smoothly inside.

"Will, yes—"

Will found residual cold, then burning, gripping heat. He dropped his forehead against Hannibal's hip, closed his eyes and started to stroke.

"Well? Good?"

A gasp. A little rocking movement of Hannibal's hips between the hand that stroked his cock and the two fingers that fucked his ass. "Very. Very good."

"Do you think you can come like this?"

Hannibal didn't answer, but swayed faster between Will's hands. His thighs began to shake again and his cock pulsed under Will's palm— he had to be close. Will slid his fingers in deeper and curved them downwards. They stroked swiftly in smooth circling caresses that Will knew were charged with currents of pure electric pleasure. The heel of his palm rubbed just as fast against the soaked fabric that stretched tight over the head of Hannibal's cock. He wanted to know if the friction burned, if the pleasure from his fingers crashed against the rub-burn of his hand. Hannibal's moans only told him not to stop.

A rough cry rose up, carrying his name, again and again. Wet warmth bloomed against his palm and quick muscle spasms clenched about his fingers. Will kept his eyes shut, couldn't stop, kept stroking, rubbing, fucking until he felt Hannibal's body recoil in protest.

He pulled back and staggered to his feet. Pain shot through his knees and they threatened to buckle under him. His head spun, dizzy from unspent want, and his vision greyed. All of his blood had gone elsewhere.

Hannibal's arms caught him and pulled him up. Will blinked up at him: the flush in his cheeks, the unmoored hair, the lush expanse of that mouth parted, panting and wet. The obscene wet stain marring the expensive fabric. Hannibal, this wrecked version of Hannibal, was drawing Will closer and putting his hands back to where they had been.  
  
"Go inside me, Will," he murmured. "I would still very much like you to make use of me."

It was all too much, and Hannibal's words didn't help. Will had left it too late.

"It's okay, I can't—" he whined.

He'd lost all rhythm and self-control. He braced one hand against Hannibal's shoulder to keep his knees from buckling again and gripped his cock with the other. A few frantic tugs, a deep and suckling kiss from Hannibal's lips and he was coming in dizzying hot spurts, almost whining with the exquisite relief of it.

When he'd caught his breath and his legs stopped shaking, he saw the white streaks marking the front of Hannibal's waistcoat and trousers.

"Fuck. I'm sorry. It's—" He felt giddy. He had to laugh. "You're a mess. Sorry."

The expression Hannibal bore, pleased and oddly tender, loosened something in Will's chest. "That was partly the idea."

Will took one staggered half-step forward and slid into Hannibal's waiting arms. He reached back and spread both palms over Hannibal's ass.

"I should cover you up," he muttered. "You'll get cold," he added absurdly.

Hannibal kissed his temple, his hair. "Leave it for now. I'm savouring this temporary state you've brought me into."

Will's eyes felt heavy. He blinked against Hannibal's shoulder.

"Glad you like it," he said. "Wasn't sure what you expected would happen."

Hannibal cradled him closer. They were both swaying gently against each other. "I didn't expect. I had hoped you'd use me for your pleasure."

Will lifted up his head and looked at him. "Didn't I?"

Hannibal's throat moved and his mouth parted slightly. He looked away, momentarily distant. "Perhaps these distinctions are less clear than I would like them to be. It seemed to me that you neglected your own pleasure tonight for my sake."

Will smiled. Not for the first time things were simpler than Hannibal had made them out to be. He found the fold of cloth and began to button it back in place.

"You gave me a gift. Something rare and unexpected. I guess I wanted to thank you. And surprise you."

Hannibal's eyes narrowed in pleasure. "And you did." His voice dropped in register as he arched back against Will's hands. "Is it too much to hope that you might still fuck me while I wear these?"

Will leaned in and bit at his earlobe. "Get these cleaned," he whispered. "Take me out somewhere nice. And then we'll see."


End file.
